Acedia
by wonkeygirl
Summary: The reality of life is ugliness, followed by death; so when it delivers on its promises and grinds lemons into your eyes,it's best to lower your expectations. AU/AH with a supernatural element.


2006

He ran for what seemed like hours.

Fast.

Grey fog flinched; swirling, curling, away from the dull beating of his feet against the spongy ground, zigzagging through gnarling trees and snarled undergrowth.

His heart beat erratically, his breath frantic gasps, hollow and jagged in the heavy grey air.

He stopped. Listened. Looked left, looked right, forward, behind. Grey everywhere. Mist and grey and damp and tree after tree looming through the gloom.

"Same, all the same, everything's the same." He dragged his hands through his hair. They stuck in the tangles and he yanked hard, his head snapping back, eyes peering into nothing but empty, dense, grey.

Of all the days, how could he have gotten so lost?

Desperate, he crouched to the ground, shoving his hands against his skull again. He rocked on his heels, using the motion to calm his thoughts, patting his palms against his temples.

They were whispering again, low and insistent in his ears, their collective voices drowning out the hollow wind that blew across the moor.

"Not here, not here. Should have listened, should have listened."

He began to pound at his head, chanting, "Peter Piper picked a peck if pickled pepper. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper." His hands beat out the rhythm, body rocking in time to his hands. He had to get the voices to be quiet if he was to find her. "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper." Louder. "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper."

Again.

Again.

The stables! That's where she was, she'd said she would be there, at eleven. He plunged his hand into his jacket pocket, looking for his timepiece, his fingers scrabbling around in the material. Empty, the pocket was empty. He must have dropped it in his haste. He turned to retrace his steps, but which way did he come from?

Quick, he had to be quick. If he was late….

There had to be something he would recognize. Damn this sea fog!

Think. Think. Slowly he turned in a circle. The fog was chilling his bones, moving was becoming difficult.

Have to keep moving.

Maybe he'd dropped it right here? He hunched to the ground, feeling around in the damp, the soft mud shifting under his fingers; nothing but mud and moss and detritus.

No time.

He looked to the sky, turning in a tight circle, looking for the sun but the grey was impenetrable, the dull, flat light, directionless.

He peered ahead, squinting to find any familiarity in the endless gloom.

Something worried at his mind, something wasn't right. What was it? This fog was muddling his head. What had he forgotten? No matter. She'd have Lady and Ann tacked up already and they could leave. The others would be worrying in their stalls.

Just as soon as it had rolled in the fog began to dissipate and familiar landmarks too shape around him. He knew where he was – just over the brow of the hill, up ahead, lay the West pastures of the Cullen's estate, where she'd be waiting with the horses.

Confident, his stride diminished to a jaunt and he took in two deep breaths. Someone must be burning the leaves he'd collected from the East garden's yesterday – the comforting aroma of smouldering mulch filled the air. His heels dug into the soft earth as he rounded the final hill.

As he climbed, he allowed himself to daydream about their future together, about her going about her life, with him: her sitting across from him at a table in a remote cottage, away from the constraints of her old life, or reading maybe, afternoon light streaming in from the window behind her, outlining every perfect line of her; her laughter, strong, beautiful, as he returned to her from another day of hunting and foraging, and her, asleep in an armchair, head resting against the worn wing, a book drooping from her hand, and her face serene beneath the blanket of sleep; for once it all seemed possible.

I'm almost there my love. He rounded the final hill.

Up ahead, the stables seemed brighter against the landscape, warmer; the colors bright against the blues and greens that persisted in the sea side winter. He smiled to himself, already things seemed lighter. What a weight had been lifted from him.

The mansion's grounds spread out in the valley below him and he stopped cold, the air catching in his throat; it was all wrong. The blank spaces of pasture were filled with foreign structures. None of it made sense. Nothing fit into the familiar map in his mind's eye. He stood for several moments, raking his hands through his hair, trying to find the familiar, a landmark to work from, the smallest reminder; a tool shed, chicken coop, anything; he needed to find his way to her. His mind turned up only confusion. This must be a dream. Hardly surprising, really. His mind had been so troubled, so exhausted that it had begun to play tricks on him. Any moment he'd wake and a sense of normalcy would return. He'd wait for it to happen.

It didn't.

And then the aroma of smoke grew stronger. The wind had shifted, bringing the bonfire in the near vicinity into the forefront. Suddenly flames leapt up from a building before him, and the shrieking of horses, their hoofs battering against wood in desperate need for escape, filled his ears. The building was completely foreign to him, but his legs burst into action and he was flying towards the commotion, but as he plunged down the slope the fog moved in again, as if a void had suddenly been created, sucking in the fog from the shallow slopes.

By the time the ground leveled out beneath his stumbling feet he was blind to anything further away than his hand, but he continued forward. His foot hit a burrow and the sinews in his ankle stretched painfully. He went down on one knee, an arm flying out to halt his fall. His palm made contact with the damp spring of moss, and something else, cold and hard. His fingers clamped over it and it made a metallic clink as he pulled it from the ground; his pocket watch.

He'd gone around in a circle. He didn't know how, none of it made sense, but here was his pocket watch. He began to call out her name, not caring who would hear. She had to be near. He would not think of the alternative.

He called out, louder, hoping his voice would penetrate the heavy air and carry to where she was. He made to stand. His ankle burned under his weight, a breath taking, nail-digging pain, but he still called out, leaning his weight on his good ankle, limping forward and grinding his teeth with each step.

The fog curled and dipped as the wind shifted, bringing the acrid smoke again. His ears strained for the roar that would surely be heard across the valley. He listened for the horses. He heard nothing.

He was dreaming. He had to be.

"Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper," he whispered. "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper." Over and over. Wake up. Wake up.

"Poor poor boy." Cool hands pressed against his head.

He sagged in relief. She'd heard him. "Oh thank God," he said reaching his arms out and pulling her against him. "You're safe." He pressed his face into her hair as her arms wrapped around his shoulders. "I think the stables are on fire, I thought you were in there. I thought I'd lost you."

"Silly Edward, I wasn't in the stables, how could I be?" She nuzzled into his neck. "Were you dreaming again?"

He frowned, confused. "I might have been." What was wrong with his eyes? He couldn't see a thing, except for fog. He looked down to her; she was wearing her riding attire, her face concealed against his shoulder.

"It's alright now," she murmured. "You're alright."

"Where are we? What happened?"

"You're where you always are, where you always will be; here with me."

There was nowhere else he wanted to be. As he breathed in, the final remnants of the dream slipped out of his body as reality caught up and eased his fears, burying his face in her hair.

"What day is it?" he asked as he grounded himself, still unclear on the details.

"The same day as yesterday and the same day as tomorrow."

"Pardon?"

"Shhhh, stop worrying about it." She rubbed gently at his jaw. "Just tell me you love me."

"I love you."

She sighed. "That's better." She kissed his neck, her eyes still cast downward.

He closed his eyes, the warmth of her seeping into his cold limbs. Her lips felt like velvet against his skin, her hair soft and fragrant. She began to pull back. He resisted. "Stay with me," he said, an overwhelming feeling that she'd disappear if he let go of her suppressing his common senses.

"I'll always be with you, silly boy." More caressing at his jaw line.

He had no concept of time at all. "How long have we been out here?" He couldn't tell if it was morning or afternoon.

"Let's not worry about the time."

"I don't want them to get suspicious."

"They won't." The inflection in her voice had changed, she sounded odd.

"Annabel, are you feeling ill? Your voice…."

She drew back sharply and straightened up, turning her head to the side. "And we were doing so well."

Stunned at her change in demeanor he reached out to her. "What did I say?"

She got to her feet, her eyes still averted. "One day you will be content to just be instead of asking questions."

This wasn't her at all. Her demeanor was all wrong.

"When are you just going to accept things as they are?" She turned, her face twisted. "When are you going to understand that this is it? This is the best I can give you?"

What had happened to her? Dumbstruck Edward simply gazed up at her. Her eyes were red, demonic.

"You'd think you would be thankful. I could just leave you here, completely alone." She crouched down in front of him, all coyness gone. In its place were red eyes that bore into him like fire. "Is that what you really want, to be alone?" Her face softened for a moment and she brought her hand to his face again, but he flinched away.

Memory was beginning to return to him. Dreaming wasn't something he did anymore.

Her lip curled for just a second before she returned to a softness that, despite the gentle smile, didn't reach the oddly familiar red eyes. "Poor poor boy," she crooned.

Ugliness, hardness, hopelessness all flooded his mind at the same time and he cried out as it all came back to him. The woman in front of him nodded in understanding and she widened her arms like wings and gave a wave of her hands. The fog around them dissipated to reveal a hollow surrounded by trees.

And then he knew where he was. He knew if he looked left he'd find a makeshift lean to. He knew if he looked left he'd find a collection of journals barely held together by their bindings, the pages worn, the writing so faint he could barely read it anymore. He knew if he turned around he'd find a broken dresser on which stood a vase of flowers, the crystal clouded into milkiness and the blooms a permanent putty color. He knew that the picture frame next to the vase contained a photograph that held the slightest of outlines of a girl whose appearance closely resembled that of the creature in front of him.

Hell wasn't quite like the descriptions of brimstone and heat that had been recounted to him as a boy.

"I can protect you from yourself. You could have everything you ever wanted. I could make it all go away. Instead, this is what you choose….nothing."

Edward let out another anguished cry. "Trickery isn't love."

She raised an eyebrow, but Edward didn't miss the rage that flew across her face. "Give it time," she said. "We've got plenty of it. We have forever." She smiled at the thought, delighted, and she gave a little twirl and then curtsied. "I nearly had you convinced for a whole five minutes. For now, that's enough. Later, then, my darling Edward."

She stepped backward and disappeared through the large trunk of an oak.

Edward put his head in his hands and waited for her to return.


End file.
